When I go a little while without coffee, I can't get away from the very distinct notion that if I only drank some I would be allright, infinetely more settled at least. Yet I cannot remember feeling this way in my pre-coffee days...the consciousness of this need does seem sharpened by the knowledge of the means to satisfy it. Before it was just a more vague restlesness, I suppose.

Just got through The First Lady Chatterley. Began last weekend Der Verfuerer from E. Weiss. After such a steady exclusive diet of German, of this endless tensive uncompromising meandering, the nice confortable drift of english prose.